


a candle at my chest (a head on his knee)

by lamprophony



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Enthusiastic Consent, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Torture, Indentured Servitude, Kinda, M/M, Magical Bond, Mutual Pining, Non-Sexual Slavery, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Slavery, Slow Burn, Torture, Trust Issues, but technically jaskier cannot be freed so it's totally slavery, geralt is all about consent baby, honestly it's not really slavery it's more like, just want to say that there will be NO dub-con between the two of them, sexytimes outside of slavery only
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-17 13:14:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29226066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lamprophony/pseuds/lamprophony
Summary: After completing a contract for the Countess de Stael, Geralt doesn't expect to walk away with much. A night in a warm bed, a full belly, a coin purse made just a little bit heavier.Instead, he finds himself in possession of a magically enslaved bard—anIndebted. Despite his long years, Geralt still manages to be surprised by the cruelty of men. The Path is no place for a man, and he doesn't want a slave. But Destiny has other plans, and Geralt finds himself struggling to navigate the ethical minefield of guardianship and possession while walking the Path with his new companion.Meanwhile, Jaskier tries to figure out where he stands with his strange new Benefactor.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 123
Kudos: 343





	1. the countess

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [A Fox Treads Silently](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26239168) by [Kaz_Langston](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaz_Langston/pseuds/Kaz_Langston). 



> Title from _Night Terror_ by Laura Marling. 
> 
> I've only watched the series once, so characterization is really just what I can cobble together from fanfic, my poor memory, and the Witcher wiki. Concrit is more than welcome!
> 
> I'm halfway done on this, just editing chapters as I go. I hope to update once a week.

"It must be lonely, on the Path," the Countess says coyly. She rests a soft, bejeweled hand on his forearm. 

The Countess de Stael smiles at Geralt over her goblet, blue eyes cold and calculating. She's a beautiful woman, approaching middle-age but no less captivating for it. 

Geralt nods at her politely, tired of the day and wary of her motives. Hunt completed, he'd been expecting to collect his coin and go, but the Countess had insisted he stay for supper. 

It is an unusual response to a Witcher, but the Countess is clearly an unusual woman. 

"Hmm," Geralt says. He takes a swig from his tankard. 

The Countess laughs. "Is this a usual night for you, Master Witcher? To dine in a fine hall with fine company?" 

"Most towns are happy to see me leave," Geralt says, avoiding the question. 

"Well, we are not most towns," the Countess says, leaning in conspiratorially. "My bard especially was interested in hearing about your work. Would you like to speak with him?"

 _No_ , Geralt thinks, but she's already signaling the man over. 

"My lady," the bard says, giving an elaborate bow. He turns to Geralt, to his displeasure. "Master Witcher! I trust you are enjoying the entertainment this evening." 

In truth, Geralt's been trying to ignore the man all night – he doesn't especially like bards, doesn't feel the need to interact with this colorful man who clearly lives a life so different from his own. Soft, youthful face with slender hands, a body entirely unused to any sort of physical labor or hardship. Singing foolish songs of bravery and valor, completely disconnected from any real lived experience of strife or struggle. His lip curls contemptuously. 

The bard's eyes linger curiously on Geralt, flickering over the swords strapped to his back. He appears to be expecting an actual answer. 

"Hmm," Geralt says noncommittally. 

"Ah! A praise so faint to be damnable, Master Witcher, you wound me." The bard plucks out a melancholy chord on his lute before pressing a hand to his heart with a deep sigh. 

Geralt lets his eyebrow quirk at the man. "You thought that was praise?" Next to him, the Countess lets out a melodic laugh. 

The bard sighs again, strums softly on his lute. "Damned with faint praise, assent with civil leer, and without sneering teach the rest to sneer," he warbles sadly. "Master Witcher, perhaps you can tell me of your valiant battle against the swamp beast, and I will compose an epic more to your liking." 

"I fought it. It died," Geralt says flatly. "Nothing much to tell." 

"Well _surely_ there's more to it than that," the Countess drawls.

"Hmm," Geralt says. The bloedzuiger had been an easy, boring hunt, having gorged on the townsfolk until it became fat and lazy. All it had taken was a single, well-placed blow, and Geralt had severed the maw from the rest of the body. It would not make a good tale, but then, no battle was ever truly the way it was depicted in song. Perhaps the bard would be able to compose an epic, completely dramatized tale. Geralt finds the thought distasteful. 

"Perhaps now we should talk about your payment," the Countess says. The bard seems to take this as a dismissal, bowing deeply to her and backing away. She lifts a hand to stay him, however, and he halts mid-step. 

Finally. Geralt inclines his head, does not let impatience show on his face. The rich and bored do love to play their games, and he dare not offend her for fear of being run out of town with nothing to show for it. 

"You will receive the agreed upon coin in full, of course," the Countess says. That's a relief – he'd half-expected her to take the price of food and board out of his earnings. He's running dangerously low on funds, and now he can get Roach that new bridle she sorely needs. 

"—And a servant, I think, to relieve the lonely nights," the Countess finishes, waving a hand towards the bard.

Geralt pauses, mind forcefully wrenched away from thoughts of Roach. "What." His eyes flick towards the bard, who has grown pale and still. 

The Countess smiles, and this time it reaches her eyes; she's broken his composure and it pleases her. "My bard is Indebted," she says. "He is yours now."

"What use do I have for a bard?" Geralt asks, frustrated. 

"Whatever use you wish, dear Witcher," the Countess says. The polite, slightly-bored mask is gone from her face, and eyes alight with interest as she looks between the still figure of the bard to Geralt's face. 

"My lady," Geralt says stiffly. "I must refuse." _A servant,_ she'd said. But that was a kind of pretty lie favored by those in power – to be Indebted was to be a slave, magically tied who whomever held the contract. "Surely you have more use for him here." 

"I grow tired of his antics," the Countess says easily. Geralt sees it, now, the dangerous edge to her person, the callous disregard she shows for the life she is responsible for. "He is so eager to speak of the road. What better opportunity to see the world than to travel with a Witcher?" 

"The Path is no place for a human," Geralt growls. 

The Countess bends her head to remove a thin, silver chain from her neck. She pulls gently at Geralt's arm, placing the chain in Geralt's now upturned hand. 

"Well, he no longer has a place here." The Countess places her small hand over Geralt's, closing his fingers around the chain. "You may get rid of him if you wish, of course." She shrugs, as if it is of no concern to her what Geralt does with her charge. 

Geralt knows he could stop her. Her hands are so much smaller than his own, soft and delicate. But he's more aware than ever of the guards posted in the room, eagle-eyed and suspicious, with even more guards posted along the hallways to the exit. He could still leave, perhaps, but not without carving a bloody path in his wake. 

Finally, he nods. The medallion around his neck thrums warningly, a fission of magic thrumming simultaneously through his medallion and the chain in his hand. The bard gasps softly, the first sound he's made during the entire exchange. The bard's hand shoots up to touch his neck, undoubtedly feeling the spark of magic in his own chain. 

The bard looks so young, hand to his throat with wide, pale eyes fixed on the Countess. He swallows visibly, seeming to gather himself. He bows, low, to the Countess. "My lady – if I may," he says. It's far too late to protest, the transition in power already made, but the Countess gives him a benevolent nod. It would be a mercy to quiet him, Geralt thinks darkly, but the Countess does not seem overly inclined to mercy.

"My lady, I beg your forgiveness," the bard says. "My only intention was to be your devoted and loyal servant, and if I have failed you – the very idea rends my heart into pieces. Forgive me."

"I know, Jaskier," the Countess smiles down at the bard and extends a hand. The bard steps forward, bowed low. She lets him kiss her hand before carding fingers through his hair, much like one would pet a faithful dog. "And you are forgiven." 

Geralt blinks. He feels a brief flicker of hope, _maybe_ – perhaps this was just a charade, a cruel way of punishing the bard, proving a point— 

"You may leave my service with a clear conscience," the Countess continues. 

Geralt can't see the bard's face, head still bowed submissively, but notices the slight slump of his shoulders. "Yes, my lady," he says.

Geralt stands, unable to stomach the scene any longer. His chair drags across the stone floor loudly, sound echoing through the halls. The guards around him twitch nervously at the sudden movement. 

"I will take my leave," Geralt says, voice hard and flat. "Countess." 

"If you must, dear Witcher," the Countess says, smiling pleasantly. "Will you not stay the night? It is much too late to set out now."

She's right, of course. The sun has long since set, and both him and Roach could use the rest. "If my lady allows it," he grits out through clenched teeth. 

"Jaskier will show you the way," the Countess says. As just like that, she's done with the both of them. The fickle cruelty of nobility shouldn't be able to surprise Geralt after all these years, but he still finds himself off-balance, unnerved by this whole display. 

To place a young man so easily in the hands of a stranger—a _Witcher_ —to be so wholly unconcerned with his fate – his stomach twists with discomfort. 

"My lord, if you could follow me," Jaskier says, conspicuously avoiding eye contact with Geralt. Geralt follows him wordlessly through the corridors, mind buzzing. 

The room the bard leads him to is beautiful, lavishly furnished. A fire roars in the hearth, casting flickering light over the tapestries that cover the stone walls. A wooden bath sits in an alcove onto the left, already filled to the brim with gently steaming water. 

Geralt steps into the room, relieved at the chance to finally be alone. He stops and frowns slightly to see the bard standing in the doorway. 

"What?" he says, impatiently. 

"Shall I attend you tonight, my lord?" Jaskier asks. His face is still pale, but there's an easy smile on his face. 

Perhaps a human would look at him and think him already comfortable with his new lot in life, but Geralt knows better. His hands are tucked politely behind his back, undoubtedly to hide the fine tremor that began the moment the Countess declared his fate. His heart is hammering in his chest, loud enough for Geralt to hear a good five feet away, and the sour scent of anxiety and fear clings to his person. 

"No," Geralt says. "We leave at dawn tomorrow." 

"Yes, my lord." Jaskier bows and finally steps out of the doorway.

"I am not a lord," Geralt says flatly, and shuts the door in his face. 

~~~~~

The door slams in his face. Jaskier nods—pointless, really, since the Witcher is no longer present to see it—and forces a smile on his face for the walk down the halls to his quarters. He greets the servants he passes with his customary jaunty manner ( _Martha, my love, you have truly surpassed yourself with the roast! The guests found it to be absolutely delightful!_ ). 

He cannot afford to break down where the Countess will undoubtedly hear of it. Or even worse, the Witcher – he already appears displeased by Jaskier's presence, it would do no good to let him know the feeling was mutual. What use is a reluctant servant?

Jaskier goes about his nightly routines. Carefully puts away his lute, folds his silk doublet and trousers. He sits on his bed and stares about his room. He should pack, he supposes. Jaskier only has a vague notion of what a Witcher's life is like – on the road, living off the land between stops into town to kill whatever monsters are sulking about. He most likely won't need much aside from clothes and his lute, which he could not bear to part from. 

Jaskier's head spins. He wonders, faintly, what horrible crime he has committed to deserve being tossed away so casually. To a _Witcher_ , no less, a wandering hunter who had shown absolutely no interest in owning a bard. Jaskier might not entirely believe the tales told about Witchers – that they are inhuman beasts, barely better than the monsters they kill—but surely the Countess has. 

Is this what she wants? For Jaskier to be ripped apart, destroyed by the unfathomable desires of a monster in human form? 

Jaskier has no illusions about his status, has always known this day would come. But to be discarded in this way—it feels unconscionable. Like there must be some mistake, some hidden meaning. 

The Countess has a habit of sending Jaskier off to entertain her overnight guests, so he had assumed he would be sent to attend to the Witcher. He'd been curious, but not necessarily afraid—being bound to the Countess offers him some protection, after all, and her guests never hurt him in a way that is permanent or insulting to her household. 

But to be given over entirely?

_What use do I have for a bard?_

The Witcher's words echo in Jaskier's head. What use indeed? Jaskier's mind, too imaginative for its own good, flits quickly through several ever more creative and painful uses the Witcher could have for him. 

Jaskier stands and paces the length of the small room, forcing himself to push away the spiraling anxiety. The Witcher is dangerous, certainly, and hard to read; his golden, cat-slitted eyes had shown no emotion when they looked at Jaskier. He isn't kind, but he doesn't seem _cruel_. Jaskier desperately hopes the man isn't cruel—he thinks of the man's large hands and broad back, capable and deadly, and shivers.

In all likelihood, the Witcher will simply not keep him. He has no interest in Jaskier, as an entertainer or in bed, as evidenced by his dismissal. The Witcher needs coin, he can tell that much, and there is no sense in killing or permanently harming Jaskier when he can get payment for him instead. 

All Jaskier has to do, then, is either prove his use or guide the Witcher into selling him to the right person. Life with the Countess is not a life anyone dreams of, certainly, but there are worse possible fates for the Indebted. If the Witcher sells him to another lord or lady, it will spare him a life in the brothels or in serfdom. 

Perhaps the Witcher will be merciful. 

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. Jaskier sits on his bed and shivers despite the warmth of the room. No sleep will come for him tonight.


	2. bloedzuiger

Geralt hopes, vaguely, that the bard will not be ready to leave come morning, and he will be justified in leaving the chain and this whole rotten business behind him. No such luck. 

He finds Jaskier standing in the stables next to Roach, a silken rope tied around his wrists. Geralt eyeballs the bindings. 

"Customary for travel in town, my lord," the stablehand tells him. Geralt grunts and doesn't argue. He accepts the bag of coin for payment and mounts Roach quickly. 

"Come," he says. The bard slows him down, of course; the Countess hadn't been generous enough to give him a horse, and now Geralt can't move Roach faster than a slow trot. He feels his mood darken. Some _reward_ —a burden, is what it is, an extra mouth to feed and being to protect. 

Aside from a respectful greeting, Jaskier says nothing, and Geralt can almost ignore his presence except for the sound of his panting breath in the cool air. He remains quiet for about ten minutes.

"Well then," Jaskier says, voice forcefully cheerful. "Where are we headed to, Master Witcher?" 

"Away," Geralt says. 

"Hmm, away. That's dreadfully unclear, I must say, surely you have a location in mind? I hear Bremervoord is beautiful this time of year, I spent a summer there with the Countess—" his voice falters a bit at her name, but then continues with a stalwart air, "—and of course you wouldn't believe the market there, merchants from all over the world. Though I suppose there's not a whole lot of monsters there, it's really quite well taken care of—" 

"Bard," Geralt says. "Shut up."

Jaskier shuts up, for one beautiful minute. "It occurs to me, Master Witcher, we have not been properly introduced! I am Julian of Redania, the bard commonly known as Jaskier. I trained at Oxenfurt University—you may have heard of it, quite well-respected, located on the Poctar river—on the Countess's good graces, and achieved top marks in my class. Quite a valuable education, you know, that is respected by lords and ladies across the Four Kingdoms—" 

"Geralt of Rivia," Geralt says, just to get the bard to shut up. 

"Rivia, you say? I hear the blacksmiths of Rivia are one of a kind, truly outclassing the work of their neighbors," Jaskier continues brightly. 

"Jaskier," Geralt says, putting some malice into his tone. He pulls Roach to a stop and turns to glare at the man. Jaskier visibly twitches, looking nervous, and takes a few steps back until his hands are tugged forward by the bindings. 

"Yes, Master Witcher?" 

"I prefer to ride in peace," Geralt says. Jaskier opens his mouth, freezes at Geralt's intensified glare, and shuts it with a decisive _click_. 

Geralt looks around. They've only been traveling for twenty minutes, give or take, but they've already passed the border of the town. He dismounts in one fluid motion, ignoring Jaskier's startled jump at the movement. He leads Roach over to the side of the road to graze before turning back to the bard. 

The bard, who is watching Geralt with wide, nervous eyes. The persistent scent of anxiety rankles Geralt's nose, sets his teeth on edge. Under the Countess's protection, the bard had been chatty and confident, looking at Geralt with an open fascination and curiosity. The change in his demeanor doesn't trouble Geralt, exactly, but it turns what would have once been a peaceful ride with Roach into a tense, unpleasant affair. 

Geralt lets the dagger in his tunic slip down his sleeve and into his hand. Jaskier's eyes grow wider, and he stumbles back another step. 

"My lord," he says—back to the _my lords_ , Geralt notes grimly—"I must apologize, perhaps I did not completely grasp your command earlier but I certainly do now, I will happily remain quiet as a mouse for the rest of the journey." He lets out a little squeak as Geralt grabs his arm, just above the silken rope binding his wrists together. 

"Shut _up_ , gods," Geralt says, exasperated. "I will not harm you. We will move faster without this." Geralt cuts the rope and releases the man. 

"Ah," Jaskier says. He rubs his wrists, although Geralt can see no marks on his skin from the soft rope. "My thanks, Master Witcher." 

"Hmm," Geralt says. 

Jaskier looks up at Geralt, some of his nerves visibly receding now that he's been physically freed. His eyes trace over Geralt's face, his hair. "Geralt of Rivia," he says, softly to himself, like he's trying to remember something. 

Geralt grimaces, not eager to learn where the bard's mind is going. His reputation precedes him, unfortunately. Geralt turns toward Roach and mounts. "Come," he says to Jaskier. "We need to pick up the pace." 

"Yes, Master Witcher," Jaskier says deferentially. Geralt internally sighs, half-expecting Jaskier to start chattering again about something or another. But true to his word, he stays quiet until they stop for the night. 

Geralt tries not to feel guilty at the bard's obedient silence, clearly contrary to his nature and compelled by fear of Geralt's anger. He pushes away the persistent twinge of remorse in his chest; he didn't ask for a slave, has no desire to lord power over any man. 

Any platitudes would likely not be believed. Best to interact as little as possible until he can figure out how to remove him from his life entirely.

~~~~~

Jaskier tries to be quiet, useful, and agreeable when they set up camp. 

The thing is. The Countess had always held a certain level of benevolent amusement in her dealings with Jaskier. (Until she didn't— _I grow tired of his antics_ , he thinks, the words echoing maliciously in the back of his mind.) Jaskier was allowed to be loud and audacious, almost unheard of for an Indebted, and was punished appropriately when he toed too close to the invisible line. 

With another Benefactor, Jaskier would have perhaps grown graceful and quiet and obedient in all the ways an Indebted was expected to be. He would never have become a bard, of course, but he would have known how to serve whomever held his contract. Jaskier had always been grateful for the Countess' leniency, how she had allowed him an education and a personality outside of servitude. 

But now, cast away from her court and outside of her protection— well. Jaskier is noisy, and talks too much, and has occasionally been described as "aggravating" by the less-cultured guests of the Countess. To top it all off, he lacks any of the practical skills that could potentially be of use to a Witcher. Here he is nothing but a burden. 

A loud, aggravating burden, who has no clue how to set up a fire or cook a rabbit. 

Geralt looks over Jaskier's shoulder, surveying his pitiful attempt to stack firewood. His face is expressionless as always, but his right eyebrow twitches—irritation, maybe? "Just go sit down," Geralt says finally. "Not _there._ On the log over there."

Yep. Irritation. 

Jaskier twiddles his fingers nervously, itching for his lute. The Witcher told him to be _quiet_ , but surely that didn't include _music_. What kind of camp would this be without a rousing song in front of the fire? Jaskier casts his eyes over to his lute case, sitting next to a tree on the other side of the clearing. If he gets up to get it, will the Witcher consider that disobedience? He _did_ tell him to sit down...

The Witcher, crouched in front of the would-be campfire, utters a quiet command. The wood pile ignites so suddenly that Jaskier gasps and jumps to his feet, internal dilemma immediately forgotten. 

"What _is_ that?" he says, awed. He steps in close, peering at the roaring fire, then turns back to the Witcher. "How did you do that?"

"A simple fire sign," Geralt answers. 

"Well that's useful," Jaskier comments, scooting closer to the pleasant warmth. "Witchers can do magic?" 

"I'm going for food," Geralt says, ignoring the question. "Stay here."

Jaskier wonders as he sits next to the fire and tunes his lute. Songs speak of the Witcher's brute strength, their wolf-like scent for blood and ability to kill almost anything. Silver and steel, striking fear into the hearts of men and monsters alike. They have no feelings, the tales say, and will leave you for dead if you don't have the coin to pay them. 

They don't speak of spells. They are magic beings, not casters of magic. What else are the tales leaving out? Jaskier has felt drawn to the Witcher the moment he set eyes on him in the Countess' hall, covered in blood and wet from battling the swamp creatures. _Always so curious, my little lark_ , the Countess used to say. A warning, usually, when he toed too close to the line, pushed a little too much. 

Jaskier is halfway through composing a sonnet on an epic battle between a swamp creature and a certain brave, white-haired Witcher when Geralt steps back into the clearing, four hares dangling from his hand. 

"Ack," he yelps, scooting away from the dead things. Geralt gives him an unimpressed look, and Jaskier clears his throat. "Dear Witcher! I see you were successful in your hunt," he tries. 

Geralt grunts, settling down to skin the hares. Jaskier hesitates, unsure if it's acceptable to continue with the Witcher present; but there's only one way to find out, he figures. He strums a chord experimentally. 

Geralt doesn't look up. 

That's as good as permission, in Jaskier's book. He continues with gusto. 

In short order, Jaskier has an entire sonnet composed. The hares are roasting in the fire, and Geralt is settled a few feet away. He's staring into the fire, quite broodily. The flames flicker, casting shadows over the defined lines of his face. 

"So, Master Witcher," Jaskier says. "What do you think?"

Geralt's eyes shift from the fire to rest on Jaskier, pupils thin slivers in his yellow eyes.

"Now, The Sonnet de Stael is a rough work in progress, I must admit. Give me your best critique. Three words or less." 

"It's not accurate."

"Perhaps you could help me with that," Jaskier says brightly. Geralt looks unconvinced. 

"Otherwise, I will be forced to fill in the details myself. I've been told I have a wild imagination, you know, I could put all sorts of ridiculous details in. Do swamp beasts sing?"

Geralt's face twitches. _That'll do it_ , Jaskier thinks smugly. 

Geralt begrudgingly answers Jaskier's rapid-fire questions about the swamp monster, which he calls a bloedzuiger. He describes a huge, leech-like elephant creature as if it was nothing more than a rabid dog, dangerous but uninteresting, and Jaskier is _entranced._

"Acid blood, you say?" Jaskier says for the third time, not quite believing. "Honestly, dear Witcher, this makes a marvelous tale." Jaskier can practically feel the inspiration lighting up his body, making him itch to grab a quill and a piece of parchment. 

"Alright, enough," Geralt says. "Time to sleep." 

Jaskier settles into his bedroll, but notices Geralt has not moved from his seat. "Master Witcher?" he starts to ask. "Will you not sleep?"

Geralt grunts in response. 

Jaskier lies down, staring up at the starry night sky. Minutes pass, or maybe even hours; exhaustion tugs at Jaskier, but everything is so strange, his current existence so fragile, he finds sleep cannot pull him under. Geralt is breathing slow and deep, but he must be awake, sitting up on the log the way he has.

"Geralt," Jaskier says, voice pitched low and quiet, barely audible even to himself. It's the first time he's used the Witcher's name—a risk, really, disrespectful for an Indebted to address their Benefactor in such a way—and it has the desired effect; Geralt opens his eyes and turns to look at him, eyebrows raised expectantly. 

"What will you do with me?"

He's asked Geralt a million questions about Witchers and monsters, rambled on about all manner of subjects, but he hasn't been brave enough to broach this topic in the short time they've been together. He's not sure he'll like what he hears. 

There's a long silence, and Jaskier thinks he does not mean to answer. 

"I do not know," Geralt says, finally. 

"I can be useful," Jaskier says. It feels like his heart is beating in his throat. 

"The Path is no place for a man," Geralt says, almost gently. 

"Ah."

A pause. "We'll go into town, see if we cannot find a better place for you," Geralt says. 

Jaskier fidgets with his blanket. "A better place? Or just any place?"

A slight frown crosses Geralt's face, barely visible in the firelight. 

"There are plenty of places for an Indebted," Jaskier says in a rush. He sits up, suddenly unable to lie still any longer, and scoots along the ground to sit near Geralt's feet. "And I—I mean, some of them are—are not good, you know, and I would most certainly fetch you more coin if you waited a bit and didn't just drop me off with the first buyer." 

"Jaskier," Geralt starts to say, but Jaskier feels panic running through his blood. If the Witcher doesn't listen—Jaskier reaches out, dares to put his hand on the Witcher's knee. Geralt stills at the touch. 

"You may do with me what you like, Master Witcher," Jaskier says softly. "I have nothing to bargain with you that you do not already possess. But I would be grateful," he says, hesitating now, faced with Geralt's stony face, horribly aware of how empty his pleas are, how powerless. "If you must be rid of me, I _understand_ , just please do not—" _throw me away_ "—doom me to a short and painful life," he finishes, unable to better verbalize his thoughts. 

He would beg, if he thought it would help, but he suspects Geralt would find it distasteful. He's already as close as he can get without groveling outright, sitting at the Witcher's feet with a hand placed tentatively on his knee, like a shivering foxhound begging for table scraps. 

Geralt's hand closes around Jaskier's. For a moment, Jaskier wonders; there's a significance to their positions, Jaskier at Geralt's feet. 

Perhaps the Witcher will let Jaskier be of use after all. 

He dares not move any closer, however, in case such advances are unwanted; if it came down to it, he would acquiesce to whatever the Witcher wants, and he hopes Geralt understands this, recognizes the silent offer. 

"I will not drop you off to be abused," Geralt says firmly. Jaskier stares into his golden eyes, searching. He seems stalwart, trustworthy. When it comes down to it, Jaskier cannot picture Geralt dumping him into the hands of some seedy roadside trafficker.

Of course, Jaskier would never have imagined the Countess to be capable of dropping him off with a complete stranger, either.

And yet here he is. 

"Jaskier, I swear it," Geralt says, seeming to sense Jaskier's wariness. "I will not drop you off with whatever unscrupulous slaver comes our way."

"That could take a while," Jaskier says hesitantly. Not that he's trying to convince Geralt otherwise, mind; he just needs to know Geralt _understands_. 

"So be it," Geralt says. His large hand still covers Jaskier's own, and he squeezes it briefly before removing it from his leg. His movements are careful, almost gentle. 

Jaskier nods. He crawls back to his bedroll and turns away from Geralt, curls up as much as he can. 

Jaskier's mind wanders, flashes of memory floating before his eyes and tumbling about his head. Geralt, reassuring him with gentle hands and a soft voice that soothes the sting of rejection. The Countess, painted lips curling into a smile as she laughs at a quip in one of his songs. 

Her careless shrug, disinterested and already bored, telling Geralt he may get rid of Jaskier if he wishes. _You're forgiven_ , she says, but for what?

For years he'd been her servant, and he'd loved her, in a way. Maybe not truly, not in the way a free man can love a woman, but love nonetheless. The betrayal cuts deep, painful in a way he's felt once before. Unbidden, the memory surfaces to the forefront of his mind, fuzzy with age; his father, signing his Indebted contract with steady hands and an unapologetic shake of the head.

Jaskier can feel the tears cooling on his cheeks in the night air, but he's grateful he doesn't make a sound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bloedzuiger from the Witcher wiki (https://Witcher.fandom.com/wiki/Bloedzuiger) is my new favorite monster. It has a giant leech mouth for a head and *acidic blood*, y'all. It sounds absolutely _disgusting_ , we need more of this guy in fandom.


	3. bruxae

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt reflects on what he's gotten himself into. Jaskier gets to play his lute a bit.

Geralt spends the morning feeling unsettled, an itch under his skin he can't quite reach. 

Their conversation the night prior had been... disquieting. Jaskier had looked desperate for the first time since they'd met, had stared up at Geralt with a tentative hand on his thigh—an overture, Geralt suspects, but prefers not to examine it too closely. Geralt enjoys the enthusiastic consent of the willing, will accept the faked eagerness of the paid, but he will not take advantage of a man in such a vulnerable position. 

Geralt will not comment on the conversation, or on the bard's choked sobs that had lasted throughout the night—better to let him keep what dignity he can. It is behind them now. 

Well. As behind them as it can be, with this accursed bond between them. Geralt stares blankly at the road ahead as his mind turns over what little he knows about Indebted and the nature of their servitude. Indebted enter their contracts voluntarily by swearing a life-long oath of obedience, to end only with their death or the death of their Benefactor. As far as Geralt knows, it is unbreakable, sealed by a sorcerer with dark magic. 

The voluntary nature of the contract makes them exceedingly rare; only the most desperate of men are willing to pledge themselves to lifelong servitude. Most would rather die. 

Geralt has known a handful of Indebted, and they were a sorry lot; murderers, thieves, gamblers in over their heads. They were pale and downtrodden, oddly lifeless around the eyes, shoulders slumped with the weight of bad decisions that led them to their current position in life. 

None of them were anything like Jaskier, loud and full of life and perhaps a little too much personality. Right now Jaskier is singing a revised, surprisingly accurate Sonnet de Stael, playing his lute cheerfully as if he has not a care in the world. Jaskier has, somehow, woken up and completely forgotten Geralt's command to be quiet the previous day, and is now making quite a lot of noise. Geralt sighs, but given yesterday's events, doesn't have the heart to tell the man to shut up.

Maybe in an hour or so. 

Geralt listens to the bard and wonders what could have possibly possessed him to swear his life away. Perhaps he was a gambler, or took out one too many loans—the man doesn't seem malicious or violent enough to have committed some terrible act. Either way, he can't have been an Indebted for long; too much personality, too little self-preservation. Short enough that he hasn't lost his sense of self, at least not yet. 

No matter. Geralt rolls his shoulders to shake himself out of this particular train of thought, impatient with himself. He needs to focus on getting himself _out_ of this situation. He needs to talk to a sorcerer. Perhaps the bond is not as unbreakable as it seems. 

"Master Witcher!" Jaskier calls from behind Roach, jogging briefly to catch up to be in line with Geralt's leg. He smiles up at Geralt cheerily. "Where are we headed today, may I ask?"

"Novigrad."

Jaskier looks both surprised and delighted, like he hadn't actually expected Geralt to answer. Geralt feels his lips twitch despite himself. The bard is so _enthusiastic_ , like an overeager puppy. It makes him want to keep talking, strangely enough, so he does. 

"We'll stop at Roggeven first, get supplies. Maybe pick up a contract or two on the way."

"Why Novigrad? I mean, it makes no difference to me, of course, but that's at least a week or two of travel, isn't it?"

"I have a friend there," Geralt says. "A mage. She may be able to help us."

Jaskier's smile falters. His heartbeat quickens momentarily, an anxious flutter just barely audible to Geralt's keen ears. 

Geralt frowns. He's not sure what the bard is thinking, but it's clearly not what he intended. He doesn't say anything, though, unsure of what caused that reaction, and Jaskier rallies quickly.

"Well, always good to meet a friend! Novigrad is lovely, though of course I prefer Oxenfurt. Did I tell you I studied in Oxenfurt, I have quite a few friends there myself…" Jaskier prattles on about whatever else crosses his mind, and Geralt finds it easy to tune him out, letting his chatter become part of the landscape, no different than the sound of the nearby stream or the crows cawing overhead. 

By midday Jaskier has lost some of his spark. He sighs, loudly, for the third time in a row, like he expects Geralt to stop and ask him what's wrong. Geralt pointedly ignores him. 

"I say, Master Witcher, are you planning on taking a break anytime soon? Ooh, or perhaps we could switch? I think Roach is taking a liking to me," he says, reaching out to touch Roach's nose. He squeaks and yanks his hand back when she snaps warningly at him. 

Geralt snorts. "In an hour or so. We'll never make it to Roggeven at this pace." 

Jaskier peers up at him pathetically. His hair is plastered to his head with sweat, rolling in rivulets down the sides of his face. "I suppose I will have to bear it," he says grandly. 

It's Geralt's turn to sigh. He's loath to stop, but Jaskier does look quite bedraggled. He doesn't imagine the man was used to a whole lot of physical exertion as a bard of the court. "We'll stop at the town up ahead," he says finally. "Maybe a mile or so." 

Jaskier beams up at him. 

The town is a dreary, strange place. The atmosphere is _off_ in a way that makes the hair on the back of Geralt's neck stand on end. The people in the town have drawn, muted faces. They shuffle about lifeless and pale, barely sparing a glance for Geralt and his companion. Even the children look somber and withdrawn, and speak in quiet words. 

"This… doesn't seem right," Jaskier murmurs, so quietly Geralt knows only a Witcher would be able to hear him. 

"Hmm." Geralt's medallion lies still on his chest, but his instincts prickle warningly. He keeps a sharp eye out, paying attention to every movement, but they make it to the stables without incident. 

"I'm going to check in with the alderman." Geralt dismounts and hands the reins to Jaskier. "Stay with Roach."

"You think there's a monster here?" Jaskier takes the reins, eyes sparking with curiosity. 

"Maybe," Geralt says. "Stay here, I'll be back soon."

Jaskier hesitates, looking up at Geralt, but then he nods. "Yes, Master Witcher."

~~~~~

It only takes about ten minutes with the alderman for Geralt to figure out what's going on with the town.

Sickening songs heard across the valley. Strange behaviors among the townsfolk, including one memorable occasion where the butcher's wife attacked her husband in the town square with a carving knife. Young men, disappearing in the night, never to be seen again. Nightmares plaguing the townsfolk, leaving them dead-eyed and pale with exhaustion. 

Bruxae. A whole pack of them, by the sound of it.

The alderman looks about ready to cry when Geralt explains, tells him he'll take care of it. 

"Give me three days and lodging," Geralt says. "Keep your young men indoors at night, in the meantime." 

"Of course, Witcher, of course," the alderman says. 

Geralt makes it back to the stables in half an hour. Jaskier is sitting curled up by Roach, plucking away at his lute. His entire face brightens when he sees Geralt. 

"Master Witcher!" he says happily, standing up and brushing hay from his trousers. "So soon?" 

"Hmm," Geralt says. 

"Do you know what ails the town?" Jaskier asks as they bring their baggage into the inn. The innkeep, a terse older woman, eyes them suspiciously but makes no protest. 

"Bruxae," Geralt says. Jaskier looks at him blankly. "Vampires."

Jaskier looks inappropriately excited by this news. "Vampires? You don't say." 

"It could take a few days to clear out the nest," Geralt says, rifling through his bag for his potions. 

"You're going _now_?" Jaskier says, surprised, and Geralt gives him an unimpressed look. "Well, no time like the present, I suppose," he continues, answering his own question. He sits on the bed and fidgets anxiously. 

"Master Witcher," he says, uncertainty. "What happens if you, ah— well naturally I don't expect this to happen, of course, I'm sure this will be no trouble at all for you, practically a walk in the park— " 

"If I die?" Geralt finishes for him, dryly. Jaskier flushes and nods. 

"Depends on your contract," Geralt says. "But I suspect the spell will be broken and you'll be freed." 

"Oh," Jaskier says, quietly. 

"If I do not return in two days, feel free to take Roach and everything else," Geralt says. "If you mistreat Roach I will haunt you."

Jaskier laughs weakly. "As if I could! If anything, she will mistreat _me_ , horrible steed she is." But he relaxes, lines of tension leaving his body, and smiles at Geralt, face open and grateful in a way that immediately makes Geralt uncomfortable. Geralt straightens and turns to make his leave. 

"May I play for the patrons, while you're gone?" Jaskier asks. "I could make some coin. It would be yours, of course," he adds hastily. "This inn could use some of my trademark songs to lighten the mood."

Geralt shrugs. "Don't leave the inn. Otherwise do what you like." He leaves quickly, without looking back, before the bard can thank him.

~~~~~

Jaskier is in _fine_ spirits this evening. The dour innkeep allows him to play and even promises a drink if he can "fix the fuckin' mood in here, bard."

The crowd is tired, hard-to-please. He first tries a humorous ditty, and gets hard bread thrown at him for his efforts. "All right, all right!" he says, waving his hands to block an especially well-aimed loaf from hitting his face. "My friends, I see you're in a bloodthirsty mood! You will enjoy my next blood-chilling tale – _Sonnet de Stael!_ "

The reception is slightly warmer after that. The stench of fear and desperation permeates the town, terrorized as they are by the ever-present bruxae, and Jaskier's rousing tale of victory and defeat of a seemingly-insurmountable foe—carried about by the same Witcher sent to save their town, no less—seems to bring some hope to the townsfolk. After that, it's smooth sailing, and he plays several favorites picked up while in the Countess' service. 

Jaskier makes a small amount of coin but more than he had expected, really, given the state of the town. He hopes Geralt is pleased, pictures the man's response, most likely some subtle and near-imperceptible thing; a gruff nod, maybe a twitch of the lips or even just a look. A bitter voice in the back of his head whispers, _see, I can be useful, even to a Witcher_ , and he grimaces at how pathetic he sounds, even to himself.

He pushes the thought from his mind. Geralt is bringing him to Novigrad to sell him to his mage friend; he doesn't want or need Jaskier, no matter how well-received his performances. Jaskier shivers at the thought of being owned by a sorceress—can't see why one would want a bard, anyway—but Geralt is a decent man, and hopefully his friend is too. 

Good mood officially ruined, Jaskier retires to his room. 

Jaskier's dreams are haunted by strange, pale-faced creatures and piercing screams, all the while surrounded by an all-encompassing darkness.

~~~~~

When Jaskier opens his eyes, he's drenched with fear-sweat. The sun is shining through the window of the inn, and he is alone.

Foreboding grows in his stomach, and Jaskier throws himself out of bed, instantly wide awake. He's being ridiculous, he knows. _Two days_ , he'd said, to take care of a whole pack of bruaxe. There was nothing to worry about. 

Jaskier washes up quickly and heads downstairs. He uses a coin from last night's earnings to pay breakfast—guilt twinges in his gut, he _had_ told Geralt the earnings would be his, but surely he won't begrudge him a simple meal—settles in a far corner of the inn to wait. 

When the innkeep drops off his food, he catches her sleeve. "Thank you, my lady," he says brightly. The innkeep gives him a disbelieving look, and he smiles winningly, winks. "Could I trouble you for some news? Have you heard of our Witcher?" 

She shakes her head. "Nothing. I know as much as you do, bard." 

Jaskier nods, chews the inside of his lip pensively. He touches the chain around his neck; it hums faintly, warm and familiar against his skin, and Jaskier knows the bond is not broken. Geralt is alive.

Jaskier realizes, suddenly, that the innkeep is still standing there, watching him with sharp eyes. He hastily lets go of his chain, gives her another smile. It feels brittle around the edges, and her eyes are knowing. "Do you know where he was last seen?"

"Old Gregory says he walked right past his barn, towards the direction of the dwarven mines," she says. "Why, bard? You thinking of joining him?" 

"Of course not, my lady," Jaskier says. The innkeep shakes her head and returns to her duties. 

It would be insane; Jaskier is no fool, knows his abilities and his limits, and he is no fighter. Against a moderately-trained man he is lost, never mind against a vampire. Jaskier wants to help, but how could he possibly offer any assistance to a Witcher? Geralt had one single request—do not leave the inn. Geralt is kind, but Jaskier cannot afford to disobey, not with such a short acquaintance. 

Jaskier pictures showing up, finding Geralt whole and fine and _angry_. How foolish he would appear. What would he say—sorry, I had a weird dream, thought I'd give Witcher-ing a try? He could end up doing more harm than good; he could end up putting himself at risk, could put Geralt at risk, running where he has no place being. He could ruin the contract entirely. 

No. Better to stay, play his lute, and wait for Geralt to return. 

He will be there in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY I feel like not much happens in this chapter but it was getting too long, I had to cut it here. I hope it gives at least a little more insight into the whole slavery system they have going. 
> 
> As always, concrit welcome!


	4. the mines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jaskier has no business saving anyone, but he tries anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok I KINDA fucked up in the last chapter by forgetting a minor (major) plot detail. Lol whoops. But fear not! I fudged with the mechanics of the chain/indebted contract and hopefully it still makes sense? If it doesn't let me know, I don't have a beta and I've been staring at my stupid google doc so long I've lost the ability to tell if it's coherent lmao. 
> 
> This is my longest fic ever, usually I write my snippets and go. I'm just all about the poignant moments y'know. Actual plot is like a whole nother beast. Who knew this would be so hard?

Geralt is not there in the morning. Jaskier touches the chain with light fingers and wonders if it feels dimmer, colder than usual. The sense of unease that had dominated his day before has grown to a full-blown panic, a cold hollow pit sitting strangely in his stomach. 

Geralt had given clear instructions. Stay in the inn, wait a few days, leave with Roach. Orders, clearly, but not delivered in such a way that Jaskier _had_ to obey; just simple instructions without the full power of the Benefactor behind them. They might as well have come from some peasant on the street, for all Jaskier cared. 

No words in Elder that would wrap their way around the chain at Jaskier's neck, wind tightly around his heart and soul, force him into obedience. 

If there's one thing Jaskier knows, it's that magic is never straightforward. The Benefactor cannot just compel by ordering in the common tongue; they need to use Elder speech, need to know certain trigger words which tap into the magic of the contract and ensure complete obedience. 

Personally, he finds the whole system a little absurd and unnecessarily complicated. Perhaps the upper crust of society enjoys the elitism of being able to control someone in a half-dead language, in convoluted and layered commands confusing to anyone on the outside. 

Geralt is either ignorant of this particular detail, or perhaps he just thinks it unnecessary. Either way, it means Jaskier is free—hah—to make his own decisions, right now. Stay in the safety of the inn or wander out, stupid and unprepared, into a situation he knows almost nothing about. 

Jaskier's mind flickers back to his nightmares, strange and disconnected. He feels a pang in the chest at the thought of Geralt dying alone somewhere in the dark, surrounded by pale shapes and shark teeth. 

"For Melitele's sake," Jaskier says to the empty room. 

It doesn't feel like much of a choice, not really. 

Jaskier readies himself as best he can, putting on his thickest jacket and heaviest boots. In the packs, he finds two daggers; one silver, one steel. _Vulnerable to flame,_ Geralt had said, and Jaskier pockets the flint as well. He'll have to make himself a torch on the way there. 

Old Gregory is willing enough to point Jaskier in the right direction, although he gives him a dubious once-over and shakes his head at him regretfully instead of accepting Jaskier's thanks. "Good luck, son," he says, and it sounds like goodbye. 

It's midday by the time Jaskier finds himself at the mouth of the mines. He's exhausted, sweaty and tired, sweating in his boots and his jacket. It had never occurred to him that the journey _to_ the monsters would be part of the difficulty. But of course, Geralt has Roach— 

Roach, who is currently standing under a tree in front of Jaskier. Jaskier rushes forward and she nudges his hands almost gently, doesn't even nip at him the way she is wont to do. He pets her tentatively, still a little nervous of his reception. "Hey, girl," he murmurs. "You been here all this time?" She nickers softly and bites his hand. 

"Ow," Jaskier says. A horrible beast, really. He gives her a sugar cube from her bag, using the moment to gather strength from her presence. Finally he turns, readies himself; torch lit and held aloft in his left hand, silver dagger gripped in his right. 

"Alright," he says to himself. "Alright. You can do this, Jaskier." And he stumbles toward the mines. 

The mines are dark, as expected. Jaskier's never been claustrophobic, but he's discovering all sorts of things about himself, lately, and the cavernous walls around him feel oppressive and threatening. The torchlight only illuminates a few feet ahead and behind him, making him feel trapped and small. 

A strange silence permeates the air of the caves, the sound of trees and birds and fresh air becoming more and more muted with every step. Jaskier can hear his own heartbeat, his ragged breath, the sound of dirt and rocks crunching under his feet. Water drips, somewhere in the distance. 

A wet splash echoes through the cavern when Jaskier steps into one of the murky puddles on the mine floor. "Fuck," Jaskier hisses, grimacing as damp wetness seeps into his boot. 

A scream echoes in the mine, making Jaskier's head ring, and he freezes. 

It sounds far away, Jaskier thinks. It's hard to tell with the structure of the mine; the creature could be around the corner, for all he knows. He'd hoped, perhaps unreasonably, that Geralt would have managed to kill all the bruxae. That this would be a nice, clean rescue mission. 

Geralt must be in here. Jaskier's certain he would not have left Roach waiting outside for almost two days. Geralt is in here, hurt but _alive_ ; the chain is lukewarm on his chest, buzzing weakly. He's never felt it like this before; an almost wavering presence, like the bond is growing thin. 

Unless Geralt was wrong. Perhaps the bond doesn't break in death, and the other end of Jaskier's contract is hanging on a dead body, being chewed on by a bruxa. Perhaps Jaskier will be tied to this town until he himself is eaten. 

And isn't that a morbid thought. 

Another screech echoes, this time sounding like it's coming from _behind_ Jaskier. He picks up the pace, walking as fast as he can, careful of the mud and rocks beneath his feet. A few steps and he almost falls anyway, stumbling directly into a white, naked body. It's womanoid, long pale limbs tinted an unnatural green, black blood covering its chest and arms. It doesn't have a head. 

Jaskier shoves the torch as far forward as he can, illuminating the cavern; black blood trails down the western path. At least he knows where to go, now. 

Jaskier follows the gory trail, breathing as shallowly as he can. The stench is overwhelming, like rotten meat left in the sun and a sewer all at once. It's not until his fourth or fifth turn that he realizes he should have figured out some way to mark his route—there's no telling if the way back will be clear, given the number of bodies Jaskier is finding. At the next intersection he just guesses as best he can, and curses quietly when he arrives at a dead end. 

He almost drops his torch when he turns and sees a slumped form, tucked into the corner. 

"Master Witcher!" he says frantically, and drops to his knees next to the body. "Geralt?" 

Up close, Geralt looks pale and still. He looks _dead_. Jaskier drops his dagger, touches two fingers to the inside of Geralt's wrist. His pulse is weak, slower than any human pulse has the right to be. He can't begin to imagine what a normal Witcher's pulse should feel like, doesn't know if he should be worried or not. 

"Geralt," he hisses again, slaps his face. Geralt's eyes flicker, glowing gold in the torchlight. "Geralt, tell me what you need." As ill-prepared as Jaskier is, he had the presence of mind to bring the satchel of potions tied to Roach's saddle. Geralt was practical and efficient—he wouldn't bring anything he couldn't use. 

Jaskier holds up each potion in front of Geralt's eyes, uncorking the three he selects—one blood-red, one light-blue, and finally a viscous pitch-black—and pours them directly into his mouth. They seem to kick in almost immediately, and by the time Jaskier has put away the bottles Geralt's sitting up, reaching for the bag himself. He selects a small vial filled with a glistening golden oil. 

"Vamp oil," Geralt says, voice coarse and ragged. "Put it on your dagger, my sword." Jaskier hurries to do as he's told. He sticks the torch in the dirt while he helps Geralt to his feet. The Witcher is heavy, a thick wall of muscle covered with armor and leather, and Jaskier staggers under his weight. 

"I hope you know the way, dear Witcher, because I must admit I've gotten lost," Jaskier murmurs. 

"Shh," Geralt hushes him. "She's listening." They slowly make their way back up the tunnels, Jaskier blindly following Geralt's lead. 

When the attack finally comes, it is unseen and swift. A flash of greasy black hair and bleached skin appears in front of them where there had previously been nothing but stone. Jaskier finds himself being shoved into the wall, pain blooming across his side when he's thrown against the sharp rocks. A scream reverberates the air around him, so piercing it feels like a physical force penetrating his skull and shooting through his brain. 

Jaskier can't see it but he _feels_ it, a dark presence bearing down upon him. He stabs his dagger blindly, hears an angry hiss when it strikes flesh. A heavy form lands on top of his body and he twists the blade desperately, gasping under the weight. Shark-like teeth graze his neck over his carotid, but then they just—rest there, the bruxa gone still. 

The body is heavy, and Jaskier shoves it away with trembling hands, pulls the dagger from the creature's chest with an unpleasant _squelch_. 

Another bruxa lies dead in the path, and Jaskier shudders as he steps around it. The torch is dim and almost out, lying on the ground, and casts just enough light that he can see Geralt, on his knees and surrounded. Two bruxae bracket Geralt's body, mouths suctioned to where his neck meets his shoulder. They're _feeding_ , Jaskier realizes with horror. Another bruxa watches the two, snarling faintly. 

"Hey!" Jaskier yells. He rushes forward, waving the torch at the third bruxa. Her head snaps around with an unsettling preternatural speed. It's the first time Jaskier has been able to get a good look at one of the beasts, and he instantly regrets it. Deep-set, milky white eyes stare back, and her upper lip pulls back in a sneer to reveal yellow, jagged teeth. Thin skin stretches tight over the sharp bones of her face, flickering light casting warped shadows. 

She evades the torch easily, so easily, and Jaskier knows he is doomed. Black claws rake along his forearm, causing him to drop the torch with a pained cry. He tries to stab her with the dagger but it slips out of his hand, blood or sweat making him lose his grip, and in a second he's pinned to the ground. 

The world grows fuzzy. She's drinking, feeding on him, but the sensation is curiously muted. Not pleasant, exactly, but— far away. A strange tranquility washes over him, and he feels himself go lax. It's a terrible way to go, he muses, but perhaps not as terrible as he imagined. 

Cold reality crashes over him in a rush as her teeth are ripped from his throat. Jaskier gasps, clutching at his neck, and looks up. Geralt is standing there, swaying slightly on his feet. His blade drips with black blood, the bruxa's severed head gripped in his left hand. 

"How?" Jaskier manages. 

"Black blood," Geralt grunts. "Turns my blood poisonous."

"Well, that's useful," Jaskier says, and passes out.

~~~~~

It's slow going back to the town. Geralt shakes Jaskier awake and forces him to his feet, ignoring his weak protests. The Kiss stopped the worst of the bleeding for Geralt, but Jaskier has no such protection; he's confused and dizzy with blood loss.

Roach is where he left her, untethered. He hadn't wanted to risk tying her up if he didn't come back, but of course she'd stayed and waited for him. "Good girl," he mumbles. He mounts her with difficulty, pulling Jaskier to sit in front of him, corralling his limp body the best he can. Geralt turns Roach towards the town and closes his eyes, light-headed with exhaustion and pain; she knows where to go. 

The town seems further on the way back, Roach walking slowly with the weight of two people. The old man living in the cottage on the edge of town steps onto the road, looks them over with a frown. "You're back," he says, voice neutral. "Didn't think you made it." 

"Where is the healer?" Geralt rasps. 

"Dunno if she'll be able to do much for a Witcher," the man says dubiously. 

"Not for me," Geralt says. "Where?" 

The old man steps closer, squinting, and his eyes widen when he sees Jaskier's slumped form. "Ah," he says, "My vision just ain't what it used to be. Go to the inn, Master Witcher. I'll send her to you." 

Jaskier has made an impression on the townsfolk, Geralt thinks, or perhaps they're just an unusually grateful lot. The innkeep sends hot water and food up to the room without asking, and the healer is quick and efficient with her cares. She reassures him Jaskier will be fine, with some rest and as many liquids as he can stand, and charges him a reasonable price for the blood regeneration potions. 

While Jaskier rests, Geralt goes to the alderman. The alderman blanches visibly at Geralt's appearance, black blood and gore gone tacky and thick on his armor, the bruxa head swinging by its hair. He pays. 

"He'll be alright then?" the innkeep asks Geralt as he returns with the alderman's coin. "Your Indebted?" 

Geralt hesitates minutely. 

"He's loyal, for one of those," she says. "Talked about you the entire time you were gone."

Geralt isn't sure what she's after, why she cares. He inclines his head slightly, and fortunately that seems to satisfy her. She accepts the coin required for a third night and pays no more attention to him as he makes his way back to his room. 

Jaskier is asleep in bed, breathing steady and even. Geralt sits in the chair next to his bed, groaning as every movement pulls on his sore and abused muscles. He needs to clean himself up, stitch up his wounds, but it can wait; Kiss has slowed the bleeding enough for his body's natural healing to kick in. 

If it were not for Jaskier, he would likely be dead. The bruxae had been strong, stronger than usual for such a large pack; weak vampires tend to congregate together, while the powerful prefer to hunt alone. They'd been feeding off this town for months, though, as evidenced by the piles of bodies stacked in the mines; some were travelers, who never made it to their destinations, but most of them were the young men who'd gone missing. Smug and engorged, they'd been worlds stronger and faster than the starved bruxae Geralt had come to expect. After the initial assault, he'd had to hide in an alcove to meditate and attempt to gain strength. There's no telling if he would have made it out alive on his own. 

But Jaskier had come for him, even after Geralt had given his blessing. No matter how he looked at it, his death would have made Jaskier's life immeasurably better; with Roach and Geralt's remaining coin, Jaskier would have been able to get a decent head start in a new life as a free man. 

Instead he's lying in bed, mauled and blood-spattered, enslaved just as he was before. The silver chain stands out starkly against the white of the bandages, a recriminating reminder. Geralt had tried to remove it for better access to the bruxa bite, but of course he wasn't able to; any attempts to remove the chain caused it to shorten magically, tightening until it looked more like a collar than a necklace. Protecting itself, even from it's Benefactor. Now it lies slack on Jaskier's chest, silver flecked with dried blood. 

Geralt's fingers curl reflexively into the comforter before he catches himself, smoothes it back down over Jaskier's small form. 

Jaskier stirs, eyes fluttering open. "Shh," Geralt says, reassuring and low, not wanting to startle the man. 

"Geralt," Jaskier murmurs, a sleepy smile curving his lips. Geralt helps him sit up with a steady hand supporting his back, lifts the healer's potion to his lips. Jaskier swallows with a slight grimace, eyes never leaving Geralt's face. 

"Geralt," Jaskier says again, and Geralt feels warmth bloom in his chest at the sound of his name on Jaskier's lips, voice quiet and almost awed. He reaches out a trembling hand and Geralt holds still, lets the bard brush light fingers along his jawline. 

"Rest now," Geralt says. He lowers Jaskier back to the bed, pulls up the blankets. Jaskier's eyes close, and in a moment he is asleep. 

Geralt sits for a long time beside Jaskier's bed, watching him breathe. When he finally takes his bath and cleans up, the water is already cold.


	5. roggeven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt & Jaskier make a pit stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout-out to [Pionie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pionie/pseuds/Pionie) for beta-ing! <3 <3 <3 
> 
> Sorry I'm late with this chapter! Minor content warning for threat of sexual assault. Probably nothing too bothersome if you've made it so far, but see the end notes if you want more info.

'" _The evil wench stuck her claws into the Witcher_ —' oh, that's horrible, I can't use that at all," Jaskier says, throwing his hands into the air. He wavers in his seat for a moment, thrown off by the unfamiliar sway of Roach's smooth gait, and quickly grabs onto the pommel of the saddle before he can slide right off. 

"At least I don't have to say it," Geralt says dryly. 

Jaskier rolls his eyes. "Ha, ha." He shifts carefully in the saddle before picking up his lute again. "You know, I could quite get used to this. Much better view up here. Beautiful… countryside." 

Not that Jaskier is actually looking at the scenery, of course. The outdoors have never really been his thing. 

No, he only has eyes for Geralt, trekking down the path ahead of them with preternatural grace and speed. He is clad in a simple, cream-colored tunic and breeches, the armor much too cumbersome and heavy to carry around for any significant distance on foot. 

As much as Jaskier appreciates the whole bristly scary-monster-hunter vibe Geralt has going on in full gear, there is something to be said about the way the thin linen clings to Geralt's skin, accentuating the broad lines of his shoulders and back. His hair is tied up into a loose ponytail, revealing the vulnerable nape of his neck. A single drop of sweat trails down the side of his neck and down past his collar. Jaskier clears his throat, mouth dry, and forces his eyes back to the path. 

"Don't," Geralt advises. "It's a one-time event." 

"In payment for my valiant rescue?"

"Is that what you call it? From where I'm standing it was a lot more like a human sacrifice than an actual rescue. Have you seen your neck?"

"Ooh, a _sacrifice_ , I rather like that." He leans over the saddle precariously, trying to catch Geralt's eye. "Shall I write myself into the song? _The ever-stalwart bard, sacrifices his life to save his valiant friend from the graveyard—_ " 

Geralt snorts, shakes his head. Jaskier grins. 

"Ah, better to leave it out, for your sake," Jaskier muses. "Can't let the public think of you as a man with _backup_. The White Wolf works alone!" 

"White Wolf, hmm?" 

"I'm rehabilitating your image," Jaskier says haughtily. "You Witchers don't exactly have the most stellar reputations, you know."

"Hmm," Geralt says. Jaskier falls silent, mulling over the lyrics in his head, and they settle into a companionable silence. 

This is the first mention Geralt has made of the mines. When Jaskier woke up in the inn, Geralt had nodded at him, once, and that had been it. Jaskier had been both relieved and disappointed—he'd feared anger, worried about the inevitable questioning that would result. Anticipated annoyance or irritation, and a teensy-tiny selfish part of him had been hoping Geralt would be, well, _grateful._

Jaskier tries to picture what a grateful Geralt would look like. _Jaskier, my dear and loyal servant, stay with me forever and ever, for I cannot stand to be parted from your side._ The mental image is beyond ridiculous, and he snorts quietly to himself. Of course, he was hyper-aware of the fact that Geralt had to rescue him _back_ , in the end. But Jaskier had brought the potions to Geralt first. That wasn't nothing. 

"So, Jaskier." Geralt sounds nonchalant, but something about his tone pulls Jaskier from his thoughts instantly. "What do you know about the structure of your Indebted contract?"

Jaskier's fingers catch on the strings clumsily and he grimaces at the discordant clash of notes. Pats a hand absently on the body of the lute, a quiet apology. 

"What exactly do you mean?" He keeps his voice airy, unconcerned. 

"All the tales say that Indebted are sworn to obedience. But you don't seem especially bound to obey me, magically or otherwise." 

Oh. 

Geralt looks over his shoulder, eyebrows raised. Something in Jaskier's face makes him pause, brow furrowed. He turns around and catches Roach's reins in his hand, guides them to the side of the road. Golden eyes meet Jaskier's, calm and open. 

"Breathe, Jaskier, it's not a criticism. I'm just trying to figure out the boundaries of this whole thing."

"Right," Jaskier says, voice pitchier than he likes. "Well, I'm sure you know most of it. You know, the chain won't let me get too far away and all that. And obviously I can't take it off, and I can't try and hurt you or anything."

"Hmm. That's it?"

 _Yes, that's it,_ Jaskier wants to say. _Nothing more to see here._ It would be a bold-faced lie, and Jaskier feels sweat spring up on his temples at the sheer audacity of the very thought. Can Witchers tell if you're lying? It's hard to think clearly with the full weight of Geralt's attention on him, gaze sharp and perceptive. Roberta down in the stables had always sworn Witchers could read minds, and now he can almost believe it, feels like Geralt can peer into his head and touch the swirling thoughts inside. 

"Okay, well, no. There are, ah, trigger words. To get your Indebted to do perform certain tasks, like if you want to summon them to your side. For example. But. I don't know them?" He finishes uncertainty, more of a question than statement. Grimaces at himself for that pathetic attempt. Of course he _knows them._

Geralt's eyes narrow slightly, but otherwise his face is still. By Melitele, the man is hard to read. Is that skepticism? 

There's no way he believes him. Geralt's standing right there, looking beautiful and strangely soft without his armor, large hands wrapped around Roach's bridle. And Jaskier is lying to him, _badly,_ within arms reach. He imagines Geralt's eyes turning flinty and cold, pictures him reaching over and wrapping those large hands around his ankle, yanking Jaskier off of the horse and into the dirt with one swift movement. _Tell me the words, Jaskier_ he'd say, gravelly voice low and dangerous, and Jaskier would tell him everything he wanted to know. 

Jaskier's hands slip off the pommel, sweaty, and he pushes his fingers into Roach's short fur. 

"Hmm," Geralt says. "Alright."

"Alright?" Jaskier echoes the word, bewildered. His voice sounds very far away. 

Geralt shrugs. "We should keep going." He turns and pulls gently on Roach's reins, urging her into a slow trot. 

"Oh! Okay." That was a surprisingly quick change of pace. Jaskier narrows his eyes at Geralt suspiciously. "That's it?"

"Unless you have anything else to share?" Geralt turns his head, raises an eyebrow. 

"No! No, I think I've shared all I need to. At this time. Maybe ever." 

"I'm sure you'll think of something." The words lack bite, and Jaskier rolls his eyes reflexively. He relaxes, finally, realizes how tensely he's been holding his body, thighs aching from how they'd been clamped around the saddle. He pats Roach's neck in apology. 

"We'll have to be careful in Roggeven. They are harsh, towards those in your position." 

"Right." Jaskier nods absently, mind still buzzing. Most places are harsh towards the Indebted, in Jaskier's experience, but he doesn't bother to comment.

"You'll need to stay in the inn while I conduct my business," Geralt says. "No wandering." He shoots Jaskier a significant look. _Stay where I put you, this time_. Trigger words or no. 

"I only wander in your service, Master Witcher." Jaskier paints a winning smile on his face, the one that made the Countess shake her head fondly and forget his little missteps. Maybe it works on Geralt, too, because the man grunts softly and turns away. "One could say I saved your life by wandering, last time." Jaskier adds the words thoughtlessly, pushing though he knows he shouldn't. 

Geralt pauses, turns back. "You would be right," he says, voice calm and serious. "And I thank you." 

Jaskier blinks, startled, feels heat rise up to his face. "I—Oh." 

Geralt smirks, a faint twitch of the lips, before turning back to the road and marching forward, conversation over. 

"Well," Jaskier says, trying to recover. He rubs a thumb along his lute thoughtlessly, feels gentle warmth swell in his chest. "I say, I've just thought up the _perfect_ line for my song…" 

~~~~~

Roggeven doesn't like Indebted. But really, what does it matter? Jaskier has pretended to be a free man for years, first at Oxenfurt, then occasionally with the Countess for her amusement, and now with Geralt. Nobody will look at him and think him anything but a bard. Geralt told Jaskier to stay in the inn, but of course it was more of a _suggestion_ , really, and what Geralt doesn't know can't hurt Jaskier.

Besides. He _really_ needs new strings for his lute. 

Jaskier is bartering with the merchant over the frankly _ridiculous_ cost of sheep-gut strings when the merchant stops, points at his neck. "What's that?" the man asks, tone notably less friendly than it had been a minute ago. Jaskier's stomach drops when he looks down and sees the chain hanging over his doublet. 

"A fine piece of jewelry, isn't it?" Jaskier agrees, trying for a smile. 

"You think me for a fool, boy? That's no normal jewelry," the man says. He gestures to someone standing behind Jaskier, and Jaskier finds himself being pushed out of the shop and into an alleyway. The merchant leans close, all yellow teeth and foul breath carried by the breeze. His hands, knobbly but surprisingly strong, grab Jaskier's chain and twist it tight around his throat. "An Indebted, eh? You know your kind isn't allowed in this town."

Jaskier flinches away and gasps as the movement tightens the chain around his throat. 

"Not your Indebted," Jaskier snaps. "The Witcher's! Now unhand me, you oaf!" 

The man lets out a belly-deep guffaw at the words. "You 'ere that, Chleb? A Witcher! Witchers don't have Indebted, you fool," he spits. 

"He will be very displeased—" Jaskier's words are cut off with a strangled whimper as the chain is twisted ever more tightly around his throat. It's a thin chain, but magically forged the way it is—Jaskier's neck will snap before it does.

"You should apologize for disrespecting your betters, _slave_ ," the man says. He's smiling, eyes hard and flinty with cruelty. 

"I— " Jaskier can't even get the words out, hands clutched to his throat, pushing the man away fruitlessly. 

"C'mon, Milon, he can't kiss your ass all tangled up like that," another voice laughs, filled with mirth. 

Milon mercifully lets go and Jaskier doubles over, gasping and choking on his own bile. The reprieve only lasts a minute before rough hands grab Jaskier's shoulders and shove him down, forcing him to his knees. 

"Well, slave? Apologize," the man says. 

Rages surges through Jaskier, burning deep in his belly and making his hands shake. His fingers curl into the packed dirt of the alleyway, grit and fine stones digging into his palms. Jaskier pushes himself up, trying to get to his feet. He will not kneel for these men. 

A swift, booted kick to the ribcage drops him immediately, and he groans. Dirty fingers grab Jaskier's hair, forcing his head back and preventing him from curling into a protective ball. "Well, if you're not gonna apologize, I can think of better uses for that mouth," Milon says. 

Jaskier squeezes his eyes shut, shakes his head wordlessly. 

"Hey, what's that on his neck?" Chleb asks suddenly, interrupting his friend. "It's bleeding." 

Overwhelmed and already in pain, Jaskier hadn't noticed anything amiss. Now he's aware of the burning pain emanating from the junction between his neck and shoulder, feels a trickle of blood seeping from the still-healing bruxa bite. A flash of desperate inspiration hits him, and he pulls the bandage off of his neck with shaky hands. 

A hush falls over the men. Milon eyes the clear bite mark, a look of nauseated shock on his face. 

"Shit," Chleb says. "You think he's telling the truth after all? A fucking Witcher's slave?" The words come out a little tremulously, and he looks around wildly, like he expects a Witcher to pop out of the shadows. 

"Of course I was telling the truth," Jaskier says angrily, straightening his back as much as he can. He doesn't dare get up, not yet—his bravado vanished embarrassingly fast and he's not eager to experience another boot in the stomach—but his confidence is beginning to return. "And if he did this to me for no reason, what do you think he'll do to you?" 

"Leave now, and I will let you live." The voice rumbles from the darkness, deep and rough like a sword scraping over a whetstone. 

Jaskier's blood freezes like ice in his veins. It's darkly funny, how both him and his abusers just _stop_ , frozen like mice in view of a cat. He doesn't know who looks more shocked—the morons in the alleyway or him. They scatter, bumping in each other in their haste to get away. Milon glances at Jaskier before he goes, face twisted into a grimace, and if Jaskier didn't know better he'd say it was a look of pity. 

Jaskier thinks he should stand up, probably, but his body doesn't want to move. Geralt didn't need to take more than a step to scare off the men, so he's still just _standing_ there, face shadowed. 

A silent moment passes.

"Get up," Geralt says. 

Jaskier stumbles to his feet, tense muscles jerky and uncoordinated. He rubs his clammy hands on his trousers and knows he must look a mess, hair tousled and neck red and raw from where the chain had rubbed against him. 

Jaskier risks a glance up, looks into Geralt's golden, unreadable eyes. He quickly averts his gaze. Geralt turns and walks away without looking back, assured in Jaskier's obedience. 

Each step takes them closer to the inn. Jaskier doesn't look up from his feet, tries to ignore the growing pit of dread forming in his stomach. Wildly, he thinks of running, but brushes the thought away almost immediately. He is tied to Geralt, whatever happens; there's no-where for him to run.

~~~~~

Geralt's day has been unsatisfying, to say the least. First, he has a frustrating conversation with the town's healer-mage, who refuses to give him any details on the contract terms of an Indebted. _I thought Witchers had a moral code_ , she says, face twisted with distaste. She scoffs disbelievingly at his attempts to explain the situation and stares at him, eyes cold with hostility and scorn, until he gives up and leaves.

Next, he speaks with the alderman, who offers him a frankly insulting sum to take care of the adolescent griffin that keeps snatching farmer's children from their fields. He should refuse on principle, but the mental image of a griffin's nest filled with tiny bones has him nodding silently, jaw tight. 

Finally he gives up on the day, trudges back to the inn angry and irritated, picturing the ale that awaits him. His ears pick up a familiar voice throughout the normal din of the town. It's Jaskier, clearly in a spot of trouble. Geralt curses the bard for ignoring his command to _stay in the room_ , Melitele damn him, and rounds the corner in time to hear him credit Geralt for his bruxa bite. 

It's a ploy, clearly, a last-ditch attempt to scare the men off. Geralt knows that, he does, and he doesn't care what some fools in Roggeven think of him. But it rankles, the idea that he would rip Jaskier's throat open like a feral dog; it just rubs Geralt the wrong way, an extra insult piled on his already shitty day. 

He leads the bard silently back to the inn. 

"I _told_ you to stay inside." Geralt closes the door to their room behind them, irritation making his voice sharp. 

Jaskier doesn't say anything. 

Geralt turns expectantly, waiting. Jaskier hunches over on himself, breathing shallowly. Geralt can hear the pounding of his heart, flighty and nervous. Old sweat and sour fear clings to his clothes, and the bruxa bite is bleeding sluggishly. 

Geralt narrows his eyes at the bard. Jaskier is very clearly expecting _something._ Punishment, maybe, for his brazen disregard of Geralt's orders. Far be it for Geralt to discipline the man, when the fool has managed to hurt himself with his own poor choices. Geralt huffs a frustrated breath, scowls when Jaskier visibly flinches at the sound. Even after everything they've gone through together, Jaskier thinks Geralt will hurt him. His mind is likely running wild, imagining the kind of horrors a _Witcher_ would inflict upon him. 

"You must think me some sort of beast," Geralt says, voice flat. He's tired. 

That seems to startle some emotion back into Jaskier, and he tentatively makes eye contact. "What? Um, Master Witcher."

"I said I would not harm you, and I meant it," Geralt says. "And stop calling me that, I have a name." 

"Ah, okay," Jaskier says. His eyes flicker around the room, resting on Geralt briefly before skittering away. He rubs a hand over his wrist, like touching an invisible bond. 

Geralt gestures towards the bed. "Sit." He turns and rummages through his bag for a fresh roll of bandages. 

Jaskier sits. There's a moment of blissful silence as Geralt carefully applies ointment and re-wraps the bruxa bite. 

"Thank you," Jaskier murmurs. Geralt grunts in response. 

"I'm going to get a drink," he says, rising to his feet and striding towards the door. "Come if you want." 

"I don't think you a beast," Jaskier says quietly. Geralt pauses, turns back a half-step. Jaskier stares down at his hands for a moment, takes in a deep breath before continuing. "It's just, you must understand, even with the Countess there were times I was disciplined. I'm Indebted, I'm..." —his face twists, expression briefly raw and open— "...a slave. You're my _Benefactor._ " 

"I don't want to be your Benefactor," Geralt snaps. 

Strangely, Jaskier winces at the words. 

Geralt rubs a hand over his face and huffs out a quick breath, exhaustion settling over his body like a blanket. It seems he only ever says the wrong thing. He would say anything to get Jaskier to stop _looking_ at him like that, if only he knew the words.

"Jaskier, listen. It's wrong. It's _evil._ I have no interest in following evil rules devised by evil men." 

"I'm sorry." Jaskier reaches out, touches Geralt's wrist with light fingers. "I believe you. I'm sorry, Geralt, I shouldn't have said those things to the merchants— implied that you were cruel—" 

Geralt flinches despite himself. "I don't care what they think." 

"It's okay if you do," Jaskier says, softly. "I'm sorry either way. For that, and for all of it."

Geralt gives a stiff nod. 

There's a moment of silence as they stand there, Jaskier's fingers wrapped around Geralt's wrist. Jaskier clears his throat, pulls his hand back. Fidgets awkwardly with the bottom of his tunic, eyes flickering over Geralt as if looking for something. He looks small and vulnerable, blue eyes red-rimmed and large in his pale face. 

Geralt keeps his face still and calm. Gestures to the door. "I'm getting a drink. Will you join me?" 

Another pause. 

"Okay. Yes, I'll join you. You go first, I'll meet you there. I just need to, ah, clean up a bit." Jaskier waves a hand as if to indicate his entire presence. Smiles, unsteady but genuine. 

"Good," Geralt says. He nods once before heading out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: Some (short-lived) strangulation, implied threat of rape when the merchants harrass Jaskier. No actual non-con though.


End file.
